Manic - A Book of Poetry

Three A.M.

Three A.M.

I'm horribly depressed.

That three a.m. depression when you wake up

and nothing makes sense.  Like how blinding

digital numbers on your clock are, or why

you're alone and he's in bed with her and

you can't bring yourself to even roll over

and let's try holding our breath.  One, two,

three-fuck my lungs and my heart and my

brittle spirit and now it's 3:01 and how will

I smile at eight a.m. and pretend to be okay

at noon and I'm terrified of ten because I'll

close my eyes and see every flaw and mistake.

Pretty girls have it all.  I have a compulsive need

to hate myself and that's it.  That's all I have

at 3:02 and wait for it, wait for it, soon you're

stomach will stop aching and eyes stop watering

and by 3:15 maybe I'll fall back asleep and

I'll dream of nothing and wake up pretending

that I'm sick with happiness and confidence.

I'm a horribly depressed fake. 

What could be worse?